Instant Gratification
by LoverBoyWonder
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a logical man, but just because he knew wrong from right did not mean that he would utilize his knowledge. DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THESE CHARACTERS T.T


Instant Gratification (A Holmes/Watson Story)

Sherlock Holmes was a logical man. In fact, he would be the perfect definition of the superego, the logical, moral part of the human consciousness- except for the fact that not all of his decisions were morally right. Just because he knew right from wrong did not mean that he would utilize his knowledge. So he guessed maybe he was just the ego. He was most certain that he was not the id. He certainly did not need instant gratification. He was patient. He could wait as long as he needed in order to get what he wanted. It would not do at all to perform an action that would cause harm to himself- or Watson -even if it provided him with "instant gratification."

He got up from the bed where he was sitting and began to pace the room. He wouldn't give in to animal instinct. Would he? He breathed in and out, his thoughts pulsing in time with the beating of his heart. Id. Superego. Id. Superego. Desire. Logic. Desire. Logic-

The door creaked open. The ever-calm Holmes looked up. It was Watson. His heart soared, until Watson moved aside and Holmes could see Mary Morstan. It was then that the detective's heart fell. He never spoke about emotions or feelings, so how come whenever he was in the mood to actually communicate something got in his way?

The detective stood up, resisting every urge to pull Watson into his arms and hold him there tightly. He wanted it he wanted it he wanted it he- "Delighted to see you, old boy," Holmes said, grasping Watson's hand. He turned to Mary. "Miss Morstan," he said smoothly. "Always a pleasure." She stared icily as he traced his lips over her hand.

They went into his sitting room, which was messy as always. Watson picked up piles of papers and letters off the couch and moved them aside. Holmes stared longingly at his back but was careful not to show any emotion in front of Mary. He cleared his throat. "Watson," he said, unable to hold it in any longer. "May I speak to you privately for a moment?" "Of course," Watson replied.

Holmes took great pleasure in closing his fingers gently around the doctor's wrist to pull him into the bedroom. He closed the door and took a deep breath. This was it. Time to choose. Id or superego. Desire or logic.

Still maintaining his grasp on Watson's arm, he pulled the other man close, but his lips halted mere centimeters from the doctor's. Then Holmes sighed. "Forgive me, dear Watson," he whispered and pulled away.

Watson stood frozen, and Holmes turned away, tears threatening to fall from his long eyelashes. Then he felt a hand grasp his shoulder and turn him around. Watson took one look at the detective and pulled out a handkerchief. He sat Holmes down on the bed and began to dry his tears, one arm comfortingly slung around Holmes' shoulder.

"Oh, Holmes," Watson murmured. Holmes' body shuddered for a moment, and Watson felt the tremors shaking the body that was always so strong. So unemotional. He pulled Holmes closer, and Holmes let his head fall onto Watson's shoulder and rest there. Watson pulled gently at Holmes, and they lay back on the bed.

Holmes quieted himself after a moment, a bit embarrassed about his display of emotion. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, and his voice sounded broken. Watson stroked his head gently, allowing his fingers to tangle in the detective's hair. "Mary's waiting," Holmes reminded the doctor, his voice strengthening. "Let her wait," Watson said with a touch of possessiveness, holding Holmes tighter.

Holmes sat up reluctantly. "Go," he said. "I am not worth it." Watson studied Holmes, then got up and left the room. Holmes sat back down, tears once again in his eyes. He could hear Watson exchanging soft and gentle words with Mary in the other room, and he heard footsteps leaving and walking down the stairs as the door closed. Holmes sighed and walked into the sitting room, running a hand through his unkempt hair. Then he froze.

Watson sat on the couch, his coat discarded and forgotten upon the floor with his shoes next to it. His shoes. Holmes stared until Watson looked up from the paper he was reading. "Finally," he remarked. "I was afraid you would never come out of that room." "Watson," Holmes said. "I do not see-" "You wouldn't," Watson whispered, standing and reaching out a hand to trail it down the detective's face. "But the obvious answers are, after all, hidden in plain sight." He touched Holmes' neck, his face, his shoulder, playing with the buttons on the detective's vest idly.

"Why?" Holmes questioned. "Why now?" "Desire," Watson confessed. "But logic…" Holmes said wonderingly. "Forget logic, Holmes," Watson said quietly. The doctor moved in, and once again they found their lips centimeters away; but this time, Holmes put one hand on Watson's neck and one on his waist, pulling him in and kissing him. There was instant gratification at the touch.


End file.
